The Pauper Poet
By Fiza Pathan
I have not sold a single piece of poetry to the impoverished.
For they do not comprehend art-who can think of the creative goddess,
When one is in need of food, clothing and shelter.
I too am poor and so I spend my days selling my verses for a rupee.
I sit near the station and watch the trains passing by;
And it is at this point of time when I weep,
Because of the unfairness of the globalized world.
The rich lead luxurious lives while the poor like me,
Die like stray dogs and rats on the road.
Yet I write my poetry because it gives me pleasure,
And it prevents me from philosophizing
I’m not a descendant or lover of Socrates.
I sit with lepers and the deformed and the forgotten ones of society.
I eat with them and cleanse their wounds as they
Dig into dustbins to get a scrap of bread to devour.
I then read out my poor verses to them and they
Sympathize with me while I empathize with them.
I study with the destitute and drink their bitter alcohol
To wash away the brine from my eyes as I see them
Picking the fleas from their hair.
Pauperism is my business and business is good.
Beggars are naked and they flock all over the city
Where I live, waiting for a better dawn.
I’m hungry and in need
Of a loaf of bread to eat even if, it is stale.
Who however will feed the gentle poet?
Who will feed the pauper poet?
Copyright © 2014 by Fiza Pathan
Image coutesy: Google images